


Mind Games

by Inkblot9



Series: Witchy Pines [6]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Confrontations, Gen, Hypnotism, Internal Conflict, Magic, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Protectiveness, Role-Playing Game, Strangers, Suspicions, Trust Issues, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 19:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14654933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/pseuds/Inkblot9
Summary: In which the Pines' magic attracts an unsavory visitor, and morality is relative.





	Mind Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuffbyshelbyfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffbyshelbyfics/gifts).



His guest had refused the tea he’d offered. Perhaps he was smart enough to imagine what could potentially be steeping in a tea brewed by a witch, or perhaps he simply wasn’t fond of tea in the first place. Ford didn’t know.

That was what really got to him, the not knowing. Not knowing someone’s true intentions. Not knowing what he could believe. Not knowing what actions to take. Not knowing why, after nearly a dozen meetings and discussions, this man was still a complete stranger.

Gossip traveled quickly in a small town such as theirs, as did curiosity and desire. It soon became common knowledge that there was a new mystery in the Mystery Shack: one that was borne and ever-present in the very heroes who had made the place a home for townspeople, tourists, and themselves alike. The initial few angry mobs deflected once they realized that they could not possibly lay a finger on Stanley Pines, and that even if they dared to strike, the witch would be far more likely to burn _them_.

Stanford could practically see the dollar signs appearing in his brother’s eyes as more and more people had flocked to them seeking their insight and spells. He himself had no desire for their money, but was more than happy for the chance to spread positive energy and better hone his craft. And as time went on, he in turn began to grow endeared to the faces he met amidst the work of mixing potions and lifting curses.

There was one face, however, that he still didn’t trust.

He didn’t trust _anyone_ , one might argue, which—even after all this time—was a fair enough assessment, he supposed to himself with a shrug. Yet, there was something in his demeanor that sent apprehension through Ford’s body and suspicion through his mind. Something in the way he craned his neck to observe the old books and mason jars in Ford’s study; something in the way he extended his wiry fingers to brush their dusty lids and spines; something in the way he kept coming back to the Pines brothers with some query or another, more than any of their other friends or clients had.

It wasn’t as if Ford had any real issue with magic, his own or any other, becoming public knowledge. On some level, that was all he had _ever_  wanted—for the weirdness that truly existed everywhere and was so integral to his being to be accepted, even _celebrated_  (his pinkies twitched involuntarily at the thought).

But in this particular case, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Folks carrying an unfamiliar vibe passed through the Shack all the time, of course, but the thing about tourists was that they _left_  even quicker than they came. Those who stayed in Gravity Falls long-term were almost certainly drawn in by the pull of its Weirdness Magnetism and thus became a part of the valley’s natural hum of strange energy sooner or later, if not immediately. But every time this man in particular approached him, something in his aura Ford still couldn’t name stuck out uncomfortably like splinters in the hand of an adventurous Glass Shard Beach youth.

Whether his misgivings were justified, well, that was what he was here to determine for certain. The one thing he _did_  know was that he was certainly not going to learn the full, satisfying truth by simply asking politely.

“You’ve really never played this game before?” Ford asked presently, reaching into his coat pocket for his lucky dice bag swiped from the Gambling Dimension. 

The stranger shook his head in reply, a curious (or was it sly?) smile on his lean face.

“Well, then, you’ll have to play close attention…watch me carefully,” Ford instructed, already slipping his planned suggestions of focus and trust into the conversation, keys under the doormat of his visitor’s subconscious. 

He wasn’t often proud of his prowess in the art of manipulation; indeed, he had been kept up many a night pondering his potential similarities to his triangular tormentor. But one thing he had learned from his brother in recent years was that there were some instances in which the ends truly did justify the means…and in both of their eyes, keeping their kids safe was the most important _end_  of all.

For it was when the attention had shifted to the younger pair of Pines witches that the elder two had really begun to feel uneasy. Naturally, they were immensely proud of Dipper and Mabel’s own skills and saw no reason why they shouldn’t assist their grunkles’ burgeoning business with their own magics. Even from back home with their parents in California they were eager to contribute; Dipper provided his spiritual knowledge and readings over video chat, as Mabel shipped out her crafty homemade charms in colorfully decorated packages. For some unseen reason, these had apparently piqued the stranger’s interest even more than Ford’s incantations or Stan’s illusions.

When you weren’t even certain of somebody’s _name_ and yet they continued to waltz themselves into your home, inquiring of the progress and whereabouts of your children, you had every right to be on your guard. At least, that was what Ford told himself as he continued the narrated exposition of his favorite statistical-analysis/role-playing amalgamation, all under the guise of simply getting to know the man seated opposite him a bit better (which in itself wasn’t a _total_  lie).

An hour or two passed in that manner, with the stranger beginning to grasp the general mechanics of 1968-edition D, D, and More D. Ford found himself wondering every few minutes just how much his new party member knew—if he suspected anything, if he was plotting his own underhanded trickery, whether he was truly playing along or simply  _playing along_. 

Still, he knew any apparent lack of confidence would shatter his own plan in an instant. He kept the doubts to the back of his mind with deliberate, controlled breaths, forcing himself to outwardly behave as he would with any other friendly companion. He cleared his throat and continued onward.

“Right…so as you make that check…as you take that slow, _deep_ breath…you notice an unfamiliar sickly sweet scent in the air. You realize that your unfortunate footing upon entering this corridor must have triggered one of the dungeon’s traps, and the chamber is now filling with a gaseous magical substance…one which quickly begins to leave you feeling heavy…”

With nimble speed, Ford reached for his d38. 

“…and…”

He held the die at the ready, sandwiched between his first two fingers.

“… _sleepy_.”

Ford directed his gaze straight ahead, directly into hazel-grey eyes, and instructed their owner to roll. He did not flinch or break the stare, but the clatter of hard plastic on battered wood soon indicated that he had obeyed.

Ford didn’t need to glance back down at the table to know what he would see peeking back up at him. He knew every scratch and bump on every face and corner of every die he had ever owned. He knew he had this particular polyhedron right where he wanted it.

Natural one.

There was a commonality in people who sought to exploit others’ magic, Ford mused, or at least it was so in his and Stan’s old comic books and tapes. Simultaneously over- and underestimating the power they coveted. Believing that it could give them the world, yet doubting it could ever stop them, and failing to notice the little things right under their noses. Little things like the hex on the old dice set Ford had so generously lent, which were now far more likely to roll low and lead their player into pitfall after pitfall. Whether the stranger hadn’t noticed a thing or he had seen through everything hardly mattered now. He was trapped—in a sense, they both were—and there was nothing left to do now but finish the game.

With one final resigned exhale, Stanford raised his hand. It was his roll.

With the effortlessness that came from decades of practice, he twisted his favorite die through his fingers. He enticed the attention of the other man similarly to how he had captivated the Dungeons Club members back at Backupsmore U, or even Dipper upon his crash-landing into his uncle’s basement lab all that time ago. But there was another layer to this little trick now.

The pale golden glimmer spiralling from his palm would give his intentions away for certain, were it not too late to escape them. The digits on the die’s outward face descended with every turn of his wrist; Ford mentally repeated the numbers to himself as they passed in attempt to keep both his spell and his heartbeat steady.

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_**One.** _

The Dungeon Master snapped his fingers. The spinning die collided with the floor as his player’s lolling head collided with his chest.

Ford slowly slid out of his chair and stood up. Then all at once he shot forward across the piles of pencils, paper, and probability, gripping the far corners of the table in all twelve white knuckles.

“Now,” he hissed, “you’re going to tell me why you’re really here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey! Looks like I'm 'back on my bullshit' as the kids say. Feel free to poke at me, as well as my friends/co-authors guesso and stuffbyshelbyfics and our **#witchy pines au** tag on tumblr, if you're into any of this!! (I may or may not be debating whether to continue this specific story into a longer adventure…)


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